


The Same Good Things

by pluperfecthell



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bad Spanish, Bad german, Bittersweet Ending, Brother-Sister Relationships, Closure, Dysfunctional Family, Essentially - Gertrude and Matilda exist but we know next to nothing about them, Extended Metaphors, Family, Family Angst, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Ham-Fisted Metaphors, Ham-Fisted Symbolism, Headcanon, Heavy-handed metaphors, Implied Relationships, Memory Loss, Metaphors, Mother-Son Relationship, Original Character(s), Other, heavy-handed symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:39:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluperfecthell/pseuds/pluperfecthell
Summary: Memories, regrets, and why Joaquín doesn't talk about his mother.





	1. (I Always Kill) the Things I Love

**Author's Note:**

> Making Joaquín cry is the name of the game, apparently. Assorted headcanons regarding Joaquín's mother and sister, based on Jorge Gutierrez's twitter, educated guesses, conjecture, what I thought would be interesting, and what I thought would hurt our stale cinammon roll the most. Content warnings for bad symbolism and metaphor, and my love of repetition and cyclical storytelling devices rearing it's ugly head again. Also mental illness doesn't work like that - that's why it's bad symbolism and metaphor.

* * *

  
  
It’s a bright, beautiful sunny day, and Matilda Alexander is eighteen when her brother takes her hand as she leads him into the dark, dreary mansion where their mother resides.  
  
Joaquín, shy and quiet and almost ten years her junior, is almost bouncing with excitement beside her, and Matilda can’t help but smile at such a rare display of enthusiasm. “Calm down, Joaquín, we’re almost there,” she says, not unkindly, as she guides him down the darkened hallway.  
  
As Matilda raises her hand to knock on the heavy wooden door of their mother’s bedroom, Joaquín asks, “Do you think Mutti will be happy to see me, Tildy?” Matilda’s looks at her brother, sees bright and eager eyes, a timid but hopeful smile, and she feels her own smile grow as she says, “Sí, I’m sure Mutti will be very happy to see you, Joaquín.” Joaquín positively beams at this, and her grip on Joaquín’s hand tightens ever so slightly as she knocks on the door.  
  
“The door is open,” a grave voice sounds from behind the door, and Matilda turns the doorknob and swings open the door carefully.  
  
Gertrude Alexander sits at her desk, her pen scratching away at a steadily growing stack of papers, only pausing to refill her pen from the pot of ink beside her hand. “Matilda, I hope that you have sent for the repairman like I asked. That hole in the roof has gotten worse since,” Gertrude says without looking up.  
  
Matilda frowns. “The roof is fine, Mutti. I’ve been telling you so for ages,” Matilda says, carefully. Then, more cheerfully: “I’ve brought Joaquín all the way from San Angel to see you.”  
  
At this, the fountain pen in Gertrude’s hand stills. She looks up from her papers, and Joaquín, abound with the exuberance of a child’s innocence, chooses that moment to run up to Gertrude and throw his arms about her. “Mutti! I’ve missed you so much, Mutti,” Joaquín says, holding on to her as if he never wants to let go.  
  
Gertrude, after only a moment of shock, firmly disentangles Joaquín’s arms from around her waist, and Matilda can see confusion blossom in Joaquín’s eyes as he’s forced to let go. “Who is this boy, Matilda?” Gertrude asks, without acknowledging her son’s presence.  
  
Joaquín rocks back as if physically struck. “It’s… it’s me. Joaquín. It’s me, Mutti. Mutti, _it’s me!_ ” His words start quiet but gradually grow in volume until he’s screaming, but even so, he can’t seem to keep the quiver out of his voice, and Matilda’s frown deepens hearing Joaquín’s desperate words.  
  
It’s as if Gertrude doesn’t hear him, as she continues, still acknowledging only Matilda, “I asked you to send for someone to repair the roof. I didn’t think such a simple task would be so difficult for such a smart, well-read girl. Have I asked too much of you? Or did it amuse you to bring me a child instead?”  
  
If there is anything more Gertrude wishes to say, it is left unspoken, as Joaquín lets loose a loud, plaintive wail, the sting of his mother’s rejection finally becoming too much to bear. Joaquín runs out the room before Matilda can stop him, and if there is anything more Gertrude wishes to say, Matilda does not hear it as she stomps out the room after her brother.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
Matilda finds Joaquín sitting on the stoop, snuffling pathetically into his arm. After a moment of hesitation, Matilda approaches Joaquín and sits herself down on the ornate stairway of the manor’s entrance, being careful not to crowd him.  
  
They sit like that, quiet but for the occasional hiccough from Joaquín, and the silence stretches on for what feels like eternity. Finally, Matilda can bear the stillness no longer and clears her throat, prepared to say something – anything – but Joaquín is the one to speak up first. “Why does Mutti hate me, Tildy?”  
  
Matilda’s heart twists, and she lays a tentative hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Oh, hermanito… Mutti doesn’t hate you, Joaquín. She’s just…” She trails off, her eyebrows creasing with concern, not just for Joaquín’s heartache, but for their mother’s strange, troubling behavior. “She’s…”  
  
“If she doesn’t hate me, then why did act like that, then?” Joaquín demands, shrugging off her hand and glaring up at her with a surprising, familiar fierceness in his red-rimmed eyes. But as quickly as the spark of anger in him is ignited, it’s extinguished just as quickly, and his face crumples as he asks, so hurt, and so quietly Matilda hopes that she’s imagined it, “What’s wrong with me, Tildy? Did I… did I do something wrong? Is that why Mutti hates me? What did I do wrong?”  
  
Matilda can’t seem to find the words she wants to say and form even a single, simple sentence. So she says nothing – just holds her brother tight and strokes his hair soothingly and lets him cry his heartache into her skirt, cry like his heart has been torn out of his chest and ripped into a thousand pieces. Matilda, her own eyes not quite dry, wishes real life were as simple as her fairy tales.

 

* * *

 

It’s a bright, beautiful sunny day, and Matilda Alexander is twenty-five when she takes her brother’s hand as she leads him into the dark, desolate mansion where their mother resides.  
  
Joaquín is at the awkward stage, lanky and gangly and not quite grown into his uniform, definitely not into the beginnings of the scruff on his upper lip (that Joaquín insisted was much more impressive than it actually was) and certainly not into his rapidly increasing height. (Of which the Alexanders happened to be quite well known for, Matilda had been keen to point out.)  
  
( _“You sure it’s not for being big, giant nerds like you?”_ Joaquín had asked, not so innocently, earning him a smack on the arm for his sass.)  
  
Nor had Joaquín completely outgrown his old childhood shyness and timidity. He hid it well enough – around the other soldiers that accompanied him to Mexico City, and even around her, he handled himself with boisterous, booming bravado bordering on hubris, and he threw himself into his duties with a dedication and enthusiasm that teetered on recklessness.  
  
But when he was alone (or thought he was alone, Matilda thought with some amusement, remembering Joaquín’s squeak of surprise when she had shown up unexpectedly to pick him up – she, an unassuming nursing student, he acting the part of the high-and-mighty hero on horseback – and had startled him with an unexpected hug) he seemed much more approachable, though the newfound swagger didn’t disappear completely.  
  
Joaquín is still growing, though, and Matilda knows that it won’t be too long before he learns to balance out his natural introversion with his newfound cockiness, before he fills out the blue of his soldado’s uniform, before his mustache will become as impressive as their father’s, before she will have to tilt her head up instead of down to look Joaquín in the eye.  
  
(Matilda had asked, teasingly, if there was anyone in Joaquín’s life back in San Angel that he fancied, and Joaquín had turned so pink, right up to the tips of his ears, and gone so stiff and so quiet that Matilda was afraid that the poor boy would faint from shock, but, eventually, and so quietly that Matilda was sure she imagined it, Joaquín had fumblingly admitted, “Sí,” and that had been the end of that.  
  
And Matilda, in a faint and fleeting recollection of the short time she had called San Angel home, can distantly recall a charming spitfire of a girl, teeming with an easy confidence that Joaquín could only just now feign, and a spirited, lively boy, gentle but filled with surprising impertinence, the only two people able to bring Joaquín out of his solitude and into his natural self-assurance with uncanny ease. Matilda had smiled then, and she smiled now, thinking, secretly, that her brother and a childhood friend would look very sweet and charming together indeed.)  
  
For now though, brother and sister walk in silence, Joaquín lagging behind only slightly, and Joaquín looks every bit the sullen, moody teenager that he insisted he wasn’t. “Chin up; we’re almost there, Joaquín,” Matilda says, somewhat unnecessarily, as she guides them down the darkened hallway.  
  
As Matilda raises her hand to knock on the heavy wooden door of their mother’s bedroom, Joaquín asks, “Do you think Mutti will be happy to see me, Matilda?” Matilda’s looks at her brother, sees the cool, feigned indifference in his scowl, the barely disguised trepidation in his eyes, and she feels her own smile becomes forced with false cheer as she says, eventually, “Sí, I’m sure Mutti will be very happy to see you, Joaquín.” Joaquín’s scowl deepens, clearly skeptical, and her grip on Joaquín’s hand tightens ever so slightly as she knocks on the door.  
  
“The door is open,” a grave voice sounds from behind the door, and Matilda turns the doorknob and swings open the door carefully.  
  
Gertrude Alexander stands to the side of her desk, sifting through a stack of letters and tearing them, one by one, before dropping them into a steadily growing pile of shredded papers. Her pen and ink lay forgotten amidst the clutter. “Did you send for the repairman like I asked, Matilda?” Gertrude asks without looking up. “Living in conditions like this… it just won’t do. Not at all.” She pauses to look at the letter in her hand, before ripping it in two with an unexpected ferocity.  
  
Matilda flinches at the unanticipated squeal of tearing paper and purses her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with the roof, Mutti. There’s nothing wrong with anything in the house,” Matilda says, unable to keep the apprehension out of her voice. Then, even more apprehensively: “Joaquín’s come all the way from San Angel to see you.”  
  
At this, Gertrude’s hand stills in its tedious task. She looks up from her papers, and Joaquín, cautious with the memory of youthful folly, walks up to the front of his mother’s desk, a pomposity in his casual stance. “Buenas tardes, Mutti,” Joaquín says, and the creak in his voice belies his proud, almost haughty mien. “It’s me. Joaquín.” His hands clench and unclench nervously. "Your son."  
  
Gertrude stares at Joaquín for a long moment, her expression unreadable, before she beckons Joaquín over with a wave of her hand. “Come here, child. Let me look at you more closely.” Joaquín looks over at Matilda for a moment, and Joaquín can’t completely smother the look of hope that she knows is mirrored on her own face.  
  
Slowly, he walks over to the other side of the desk so that he faces the woman standing before him. They stare at each other for what seems like eternity, and from her view by the doorway, Matilda can’t help but notice how Joaquín has gotten tall enough to meet their mother’s eyes now.  
  
And then Gertrude does something very strange.  
  
Almost without warning, Gertrude yanks aside the bandoliers hanging across Joaquín’s chest. Joaquín gasps and jerks backwards in alarm, hastily righting the bandoliers back into place, but not before Matilda sees a gleam of emerald and black shining sinisterly on the blue field of his jacket.  
  
“ _No._ ” Gertrude steps backwards, her hand over mouth, eyes filled with shock and horror. “Get out.”  
  
“W-what?” Joaquín, his arm wrapped protectively over his chest, steps forward cautiously. “I… I don’t –”  
  
“You’re just like you’re father.” Joaquín’s protests stutter to a stop, and Matilda can see his hand tighten over his chest. “A fool, running straight into the arms of death. No regard for himself. No regard for what he was throwing away. I can see that you are no different from him.” Joaquín's eyes are big and round now with some sort of recognition only mother and son can understand. Gertrude no longer seems afraid – or if she is, her anger far outweighs her terror, and her face is placid with quiet rage. She points to the open door. “Out.”  
  
“M-mutter… I…”  
  
“ _I SAID **GET OUT!**_ ” Gertrude screams, her eyes wild with fury. She picks up the pot of ink on the desk, and Matilda cries out in fright when their mother hurls it as hard as she can at Joaquín. Joaquín ducks and the bottle shatters, black ink running down the wall like blood on an open wound. Joaquín doesn’t hesitate twice and pushes past Matilda and runs out the room.  
  
If there is anything more Gertrude wishes to do, Matilda does not see it as she runs out the room after her brother.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
Matilda finds Joaquín sitting on the stoop, readjusting the bandoliers across his chest, his face red and splotchy with the look of somebody who had been crying and desperately trying to hide it. After a moment of hesitation, Matilda approaches Joaquín and sits herself down on the ornate stairway of the manor’s entrance, being careful not to crowd him.  
  
They sit like that, quiet but for Joaquín's restless shuffling, and the silence stretches on for what feels like eternity. Finally, Matilda can bear the stillness no longer and clears her throat, prepared to say something – anything – but Joaquín is the one to speak up first. “You didn't say Mutti was this bad in your letters, Matilda.”  
  
_("What else are the Alexanders known for? Because I know Mutti's side of the family isn't just known for being giants." "Writers. All Alexanders are good at writing. Nice penmanship, by the way." "S-shut up...")_  
  
Matilda purses her lips, uncomfortable, and she lays a tentative hand on her brother’s shoulder. “That's because she wasn't. Or at least…” She trails off, her eyebrows creasing with concern. “It didn't seem like she was...”  
  
“Are you saying I had something to do with this?” Joaquín demands, shrugging off her hand and glaring at her with a surprising, familiar fierceness in his red-rimmed eyes. Matilda glares back. "Where on earth did you hear _that?_ Don't put words in my mouth, Joaquín."  
  
"What use is a nerd sister if she doesn't actually know anything?" Joaquín mutters to himself, not listening, scuffing his boots against the stone steps sullenly.  
  
Matilda scowls, irritation settling into her, and before she can stop to think, she says, "Speaking of not knowing anything... what was Mutti talking about back in there, Joaquín?"  
  
Joaquín shuts up and stiffens next to her. His hand goes to that spot on his chest again. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"What are you hiding, hermanito?" Matilda watches Joaquín. His hand tightens imperceptibly, maybe even unconsciously. "Let me see, Joaquín." She reaches out.  
  
" _Don't_ **TOUCH** _me!_ " Joaquín snarls, and in a movement quicker than she thought possible for any mere mortal to achieve, whirls around and grabs her wrist. Matilda gasps, and Joaquín's grip on her wrist tightens. Joaquín's eyes are wild with fury, and Matilda knows in that moment, she is not looking at her brother, but at a dangerous and violent stranger.  
  
But as quickly as the rage clouds his eyes, not a moment passes before the storm clears, and Joaquín is Joaquín again, gangly and awkward and wearing a uniform half a size too big for his long, loose limbs. He swears and practically flings her arm away, face wan with horror, and looking so frightened Matilda knows that she can't have imagined it. “Lo siento... I'm so sorry, Matilda. I don't... I don't know what..."  
  
"I think you ought to go, Joaquín," Matilda says abruptly. Her heart is thundering in her chest. "We can talk later, but for now... it's late. Mutter is probably tearing up the house, and the other soldiers are probably wondering where you are." It's a flimsy excuse – the sun is still hanging high in the sky, and Gertrude will have forgotten her shocking display ever happened and will probably ask Matilda to send for a repairman who will never come – but Matilda's heart is still thumping in her ears, and Joaquín is still pale and tight lipped with shame, so Matilda isn't terribly surprised when Joaquín nods jerkily in agreement.  
  
"R-right." He stand up and avoids meeting her eyes as he mumbles a, "Buenas tardes, Matilda. I'll see you soon," and practically sprints out the courtyard without a single backwards glance. Matilda, frustrated, wonders why real life couldn't be as simple as her fairy tales.

 

* * *

 

It’s a bright, beautiful sunny day, and Matilda Alexander is thirty when she and her brother walk side by side into the dark, dilapidated mansion where their mother resides.  
  
Joaquín is… changed. It’s the only thing Matilda can think, meeting Joaquín at the train station. As Matilda had predicted, Joaquín’s uniform hangs off his solidly-built frame nicely, his mustache is well-groomed and well cared for, and he stands noticeably (though not greatly) taller than her now. He was bigger – fuller, more complete. But something about him also seemed… smaller – sobered, subdued. Certainly not the overwhelmingly timorous child of so many days past. But neither was he the overblown, arrogant teenager he had been just a few years ago.  
  
Joaquín had learned to balance his two opposing selves, as Matilda knew he would, but something about this change Matilda found troubling. This was, of course, ignoring the most obvious change about him.  
  
( _“Joaquín! Your_ face! _What_ happened? _”_ Matilda had practically shrieked with horror upon seeing her brother and the eyepatch covering his left eye. _“Go on; say what you_ really _mean, why don’t you?”_ Joaquín had responded jokingly, smiling a smile that didn’t quite reach his good eye.)  
  
But any inquiries about such a radical change, in both appearance and in manner, are frustratingly elusive, and Matilda’s increasingly pointless questions – _“So… an eagle. For Mexico?”_ – are met with increasingly pointless answers – _“Yeah. I guess. Or Germany. You know… either or… I guess.”_ – as Matilda and Joaquín walk, side by side, down the darkened hallway.  
  
(An inane question about his two little friends back in San Angel had been answered with a heartfelt but deeply melancholic smile, a sharp intake of breath, and a look in his eye that is faraway and wistful and just achingly _sad_. Matilda had wisely let the subject drop.)  
  
As Matilda raises her hand to knock on the heavy wooden door of their mother’s bedroom, Joaquín asks, “Is Mutter doing well, Matilda?” Matilda’s looks at her brother, sees the concern creasing his eyebrows, the tired, worn look in his eyes, and she feels her own expression match his as she says, eventually, “Sí. She’s… okay, hermanito.” Joaquín closes his eye and nods, and she reaches her free hand out to squeeze his arm reassuringly as she knocks on the door.  
  
“The door is open,” a grave voice sounds from behind the door, and Matilda turns the doorknob and swings open the door carefully.  
  
Gertrude Alexander stands at the window, absentmindedly scrubbing at ink-stained hands with a handkerchief, a storm of papers laying strewn about on the floor. “Where is that repairman, Matilda? I was sure he would be here by now. It’s a wonder anybody can find any reliable help these days,” Gertrude doesn’t look up as she speaks, just scrubs at her hands with increasing vigor.  
  
Matilda sighs and walks towards Gertrude, tugs the handkerchief gently before her mother can scrub her hands raw. Gertrude doesn’t stop, but her actions become much less violent. “The roof is okay, Mutti. The house is okay,” Matilda says, unable to keep the fatigue out of her voice. Then, with a great deal of trepidation: “Joaquín’s here to see you.”  
  
At this, Gertrude’s hand stills in its tedious task. She tears her gaze away from her blackened hands, and Joaquín, steps into the light of the window, back straight, arms held respectfully by his sides. “Hello, Mutter,” Joaquín says quietly, and though he looks every bit like the faithful soldier and the dutiful son that he is, Matilda can see a heart-heavy burden hanging about him like an albatross that colors his entire demeanor. “It’s me. It’s Joaquín.”  
  
Gertrude stares at Joaquín for what seems like eternity, but eventually, to Matilda’s astonishment, Gertrude’s eyes become alight with recognition, and she steps forward, laying a hand on Joaquín’s face. “ _Joaquín._ You’ve come back.”  
  
Joaquín inhales sharply. His eye is suddenly misty with unshed tears. “I…”  
  
Gertrude shushes him gently, and though she stands a good six inches shorter than him now, she takes him into her arms and holds him tight. “I’m sorry, dear heart. I’ve been selfish, and I’ve acted abominably towards you. I pushed you too hard, with no regard for yourself. You didn’t deserve that.” She draws back and looks Joaquín deep into his eyes, beseechingly. “My dear… can you find it in your heart to forgive a foolish old woman?”  
  
Joaquín is silent, still too much at a loss for words, but he wipes at his eye and nods wordlessly. Gertrude is practically radiating relief, and pulls him back into a tight hug and Matilda, from her place near the door, can’t help but smile.  
  
“Danke, mi querido. Thank you… my dear husband.”  
  
With those words, the soft, dream-like atmosphere of the room instantly shatters, and Joaquín gasps and pulls himself out of his mother’s grasp. He stares, betrayed and hurt and positively haunted. Gertrude blinks, and Matilda can see confusion blossom in her eyes. “What’s wrong, querido? Are you ill?”  
  
If there is anything Joaquín wishes to say, it is left unspoken. Joaquín can’t seem to leave the room fast enough, storming out and pushing past Matilda without another word. His eye is still wet, but with tears of an entirely different nature, and if there is anything more Gertrude wishes to say, Matilda does not hear it as she, with an almost regretful backwards glance towards her mother, walks out the room after her brother.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
Matilda finds Joaquín sitting on the stoop, staring straight ahead, tears dripping down his face silently and hands folded in his lap. Matilda approaches Joaquín and sits herself down on the ornate stairway of the manor’s entrance, being careful not to crowd him.  
  
They sit like that, absolutely silent, for eternity. Finally, Matilda can bear the stillness no longer and says, quietly, “I’m sorry, Joaquín.”  
  
Joaquín turns his head to stare. His good eye is rimmed red with his sorrow, face empty with misery and grief. Matilda knows anything else she says will ring hollow and useless, so she says nothing else – just holds her brother tight and strokes his back and lets him cry his heartache into her shoulder, cry like his already broken heart has been torn out of his chest and ripped into a thousand more pieces. Matilda, her own eyes not quite dry, knows, with finality, that real life will never be as simple as her fairy tales.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	2. A Stillness in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closure, and a little fall of rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I thought it would, simply because I thought it'd be simple to write this from a different POV than I had established earlier, and it wasn't. Also, the relationship between María, Manolo and Joaquín can be seen as either romantic or platonic, depending on preference.

* * *

  
  
Joaquín had been, perhaps understandably so, reluctant in letting María and Manolo accompany him to Mexico City to see his mother and sister. His face had turned white when Manolo had made the innocent suggestion, and he had gone so stiff and so quiet that María and Manolo were afraid that the poor man would faint from shock and – perhaps most bizarrely - fear.  
  
But just as the two are about to rescind their offer, the tormented storm in his eye clears, and Joaquín is Joaquín again, self-assured and cocky and only a little bit shy when people who aren’t Manolo and María aren’t looking.  
  
“You know what… why not? It’s been ages. I think Tildy and Mutter would love to see you two again,” Joaquín had said, and he smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eye.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
It’s a dark, ugly cloudy day, but, sitting stiffly on an uncomfortable settee in a brightly-lit sitting room, María and Manolo find that they don’t notice – or care. They do, however, find that they have never felt more uncomfortable or out of place in their entire lives.  
  
Matilda Alexander is thirty-eight and a sturdy, solid, giant of a woman – Manolo thinks that they would be able to meet eye-to-eye if Matilda was relaxed and impolite enough to slouch in front of strangers – with a white streak in her dark hair and an impish glint in her dark eyes. Though that playfulness is subdued now, standing at the far wall of the sitting room, frowning slightly. She looks at Joaquín, standing next to her, looking surprisingly and oddly cowed, and squeezes his arm reassuringly.  
  
( _“You two have gotten so_ big! _”_ Matilda had said of María and Manolo upon meeting the three at the train station, enveloping first, Manolo, then María, in a surprisingly warm hug. She smiled, and Manolo had blinked, confused. Something about her smile had seemed oddly familiar, but, for the life of him, he couldn't quite put his finger on it, whatever it was.  
  
_“Joaquín has told me so much about you two!”_ She added, shooting Joaquín an amused, knowing look, and Joaquín had turned pink, right up to the tips of his ears, spluttering a mortified, _“It’s_ not _like that!”_ )  
  
By the far side of the room stands Gertrude Alexander, dark eyes staring up at the grey sky through the window, pushing a stray lock of white hair behind her ear. “Matilda, I hope you’ve sent for the repairman like I asked. It looks as though it will storm soon,” Gertrude says in a grave voice, lined hands pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The sky rumbles menacingly, as if in answer.  
  
Manolo glances at María sitting beside him. She glances back, her concerned expression mirroring his own. They reach their hands out and grasps the other’s reassuringly.  
  
Matilda exhales quietly, and she closes her eyes. Next to her, Joaquín does the same. He looks exhausted. “We don’t need a repairman, Mutter.” Matilda says. Then, with a surprising amount of unease: “Joaquín’s here.”  
  
Joaquín steps forward, then, carefully, towards his mother, looking for all the world like the little boy María and Manolo knew and played with as children, quiet and timid and looking like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than there in that room. “Buenos días, Mutter. I hope you’re doing well.”  
  
At this, Gertrude tears her gaze away from the stormy skies above and looks at Joaquín. She smiles.  
  
Manolo starts. It was the same smile. They all had the same smile – Joaquín and his sister and his mother – a smile that made Joaquín look brash, Matilda confident, and Gertrude poised and self-assured. A smile that Manolo had assumed was shared with a much revered father, a much revered, absent father who could not live up to such reverence forever.  
  
“Mi querido! You’ve come back,” Gertrude says, stepping forward to pull Joaquín into a tight hug. Joaquín hugs her back immediately, holding on tight, as if he doesn’t want to let go. “Of course I’ve come back, Mutter,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should see you more often. I don’t really have an excuse.”  
  
Gertrude laughs and draws back, taking a good, long look at her son. “Just knowing that a sweet young man takes time out of his day to visit a silly old woman like me at all is more than enough.” She pats Joaquín’s cheek, and Manolo, from his place near the door, can’t help but smile.  
  
Joaquín smiles, but it’s the same odd smile that doesn’t meet his eye. Then, so quietly that Manolo thinks he’s imagined it, Joaquín asks, “Do you know who I am, Mutti? It’s me. It’s Joaquín.”  
  
With those words, the warm, dream-like atmosphere of the room shatters. Manolo’s smile drops, and next to him, he hears María gasp.  
  
Gertrude laughs again. “How strange. I myself have a son named Joaquín. He’s still very young – only eight years old. He's a shy, sweet little thing, but a mother knows not to let appearances deceive; he can be quite the handful when he wants to be! But he's a good boy - such a good boy..." Gertrude looks at Joaquín, right in the eye, her own dark eyes soft and fond. It easily takes ten years off her lined face. “I hope my own son grows up to be a fine, handsome gentleman such as yourself.” She pats Joaquín’s hand good-naturedly. "Your mother and father must be so proud of you, young man."  
  
“...Sí. I’m sure he will.” Joaquín’s still smiling. Manolo doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything sadder in his life. He chances a glance at María, finds her hand over her mouth, eyes big with shock and sorrow. She looks at him, near tears, and he knows he must look the same. Their hands tighten around each other’s.  
  
The sky flares with light then. The clouds roar, and not a second later, rain begins to pound down onto the earth. Gertrude blinks and stares out the window. “Meine Güte! It’s really coming down.” She cranes her head to look at Matilda, still standing at the far side of the room. “We’ll have to thank the repairman for repairing the roof so promptly, Matilda. Perhaps a flower arrangement will be acceptable…? I wonder…”  
  
If there is anything Gertrude wishes to say, it is left unspoken. Joaquín, as carefully and as quiet as he can, walks out the room. Matilda – who looks stunned and shocked at the scene played out in front of her – follows shortly after. Manolo and María take a moment to look at Gertrude, and then each other, awkwardly, before they, too, leave the room.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
María and Manolo find Joaquín and Matilda standing at the end of the hallway, right in front of the mansion’s entranceway. They’re speaking quietly to each other, and when Manolo and María are close enough to hear, it’s in a language Manolo can’t understand – German, he realizes a moment later. They both look like they've seen better days – Matilda with a furrow between her eyebrows, Joaquín looking worn and weary and positively deflated.  
  
Finally, Matilda reaches up and pulls her little brother down for a hug. "You'll be okay," she whispers in Spanish. She draws back, taking a good, long look at her brother. Joaquín just nods, and he wraps his arms around her, briefly, before letting go. The two of them share one final, meaningful look before Joaquín opens the door and walks out into the rainstorm.  
  
Matilda sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t think Mutter will ever be the person she used to be,” She says, still in Spanish, and María and Manolo realize that she’s talking to them. “But honestly? I’ve never seen her so cognizant of her surroundings before. Not since…” She trails off, closes her eyes. “This is the best I’ve seen her in years.” She turns her head towards the two and smiles, and it easily adds ten years and more to her still youthful face. “I think this is the best we can hope for.”  
  
She takes first María’s hand, then Manolo’s, holds on with a surprising strength. “Take care of my hermanito, okay?” And with one last squeeze of assurance, she walks back towards the brightly-lit sitting room and the old woman dwelling within and is gone from their sight.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
Joaquín is sitting on the stoop, staring up at the watery sky, clothing already soaked completely through despite having only just walked out. Manolo and María approach Joaquín and sit themselves down on the ornate stairway of the manor’s entrance, heedless of the torrent of water falling on them, María on his left, Manolo on his right.  
  
They sit like that, absolutely silent, for eternity. Finally, Manolo can bear the stillness no longer and says, quietly, “Joaquín… I’m sorry.”  
  
On Joaquín’s other side, María asks, just as gently, “Are you okay, Joaquín?”  
  
Joaquín doesn’t respond, just stares straight ahead. His face is wet and dripping with water. Eventually, he says, voice devoid of anything at all, “I’m okay.”  
  
Manolo frowns. “Joaquín–”  
  
“I _will_ be okay,” Joaquín amends, quietly. He looks at Manolo, then at María. “I will be. Don’t worry.”  
  
He smiles then, and it’s… different. Not his usual cocky smirk, the one that he shared with his family. Not the empty-eyed, woe-laden grin used to hide overwhelming sorrow. This is a new smile, a real smile, a timid and tired but hopeful smile, a smile reserved just for María and Manolo, and seeing that smile light up his wan and tired face makes the two of them smile as well. They crowd around Joaquín and draw him close. Joaquín closes his eye, snuffles a little, and returns their embrace, holding on tight, as if he never wants to let go. They hold each other like that, for a long time, oblivious to the flood falling all around them.  
  
\--- --- ---  
  
Matilda, from her place by the window, watches as, eventually, her brother and his little friends stand up from their place on the stoop and walk off, side by side, in the pouring rain. She shakes her head, smiling to herself. Perhaps fairy tales could be real, after all.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr as either paper-jam-sans, submergedmemory, or its-raining-here, depending on what kind of content you want to see. Thanks for reading!


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